


Lay that damned book aside

by Petra



Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett, Promethean Age Series - Elizabeth Bear
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-03
Updated: 2009-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been far too many years since Aziraphale could claim chastity among his virtues, and though sharing the Lord's love with all creatures is entirely part of his purview, there's something off about this particular sort of sharing with Lucifer, of all people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay that damned book aside

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Carla, Giglet, Katarik, and Scy for listening.

"Really, dear boy--" Aziraphale pulls away from Lucifer and tugs the sheets up to his neck. "Three times--I know neither of us is human, but really."

:Thou needst not refer to Me so. Am I not more than a boy, even by thy odd reckoning?:

Aziraphale coughs and averts his eyes from Lucifer's naked form, though he had been enjoying looking at it until the crisis point, and it hasn't lost any of its objectively attractive features. "It would be better for everyone if You'd put Your, Your velvet back on, I think. I'll just make us some tea."

Lucifer reaches for where Aziraphale's wing isn't. :Hast not used thy wings in far too long, brother.:

He dodges clumsily and gets out of bed. "They make such a mess. Feathers everywhere. You must know that, though Yours are quite tidy, all things considered."

:But there is freedom in't, even so. Wouldst fly with Me?:

Aziraphale blushes and grabs his bathrobe. "You're--really, You ought to put on some clothes. People will talk--not that they'll see anything, and if they did who knows what they would think, or what You would let them think--but in any case, I do want tea." He flees the room.

In the kitchen, Aziraphale fumbles with the telephone three times before he manages to dial Crowley's number. It rings through to his mobile, and he picks up on the third ring with, "Yes, angel?"

Aziraphale blinks, but he's heard the speech about caller identification and saved numbers enough times that it sunk in, three or four repetitions after the first, and he doesn't have to ask how Crowley knows. More than anything, Crowley could know just by wanting to know. "Your, I, I have an old friend of yours over," he says, and ties his bathrobe more tightly around his middle. He could get dressed, could have dressed already, but the prospect of pottering around in his wardrobe under Lucifer's eyes is less than thrilling. Any entity who goes to those lengths to look smart is well beyond Aziraphale's experience, present interlocutors notwithstanding.

The engine noise in the background on Crowley's end gets louder, and Aziraphale says a brief and silent prayer for everyone on the roads between wherever he is and Soho. "What kind of old friend?"

Aziraphale clears his throat. "Marlovian, I think." He doesn't add, "And I don't know how to get him out of my bed, but I'm sure he's shedding feathers on the counterpane right now," or "And I really oughtn't to have slept with him, but you know how your kind can be." He suspects that either addition would break Crowley's concentration further and cause rather a nasty accident somewhere.

"Six foot something, huge pitiable eyes, perfect skin, smile like the downfall of saints, crown of shadows, white wings, thinks inside your head most of the time, dresses like he has all the money and taste in the world?"

"Yes."

Crowley says, "Well, hallelujah," and Aziraphale winces. "At least he's not the Miltonian one--he'd burn a hole in your floor before you could say 'If you could just wipe your feet,' but what's he doing there?"

"Um," Aziraphale says, and after a moment he adds, "Well."

"Downfall of saints?" Crowley asks after a longer moment in which neither of them, being supernatural, has to take a deep and bracing breath, but when they might have done so if it were necessary.

Aziraphale can feel himself blushing. He gives up on the bathrobe's material integrity and promises himself he'll change it back sometime soon before he miracles it into a button-down shirt and a nice pair of slacks. The former covers up the small bite mark on his neck better than the robe had, and the latter look perfectly unexceptionable, if slightly surprised that they aren't terrycloth anymore. "Among other people. He is quite persuasive."

Crowley groans. "You didn't sign anything, did you?"

Though Crowley is still some unknown distance away, Aziraphale draws himself up. "Heavens, no. I do know my etiquette better than that."

"Then I don't know what in G--what he wanted of you, but I'll be there soon. Don't let him leave."

"As if I could stop him if he wanted to go," Aziraphale protests.

Crowley's chuckle is long, lewd, and rather bitter. "Think of something." He rings off.

:An thou wouldst have Me stay, I'd spend many a happy hour here.: Lucifer puts an arm around Aziraphale's middle from behind and kisses his cheek.

"I, well, hm." Aziraphale blushes and tries to ignore the infernal heat of the devil behind him. It's been far too many years since he could claim chastity among his virtues, and though sharing the Lord's love with all creatures was entirely part of his purview, there's something off about this particular sort of sharing with Lucifer, of all people. "Would You like Earl Grey, or I've got some nice Darjeeling?"

Lucifer's laughter is enough to make him rethink the whole "keep him where you can see him" idea, no matter how quickly Crowley's driving. What are they going to do about him and his dratted feathers, anyway? It's not as though Crowley has the position to ask him to leave, and Aziraphale did let him in the flat, ill-thought-out though it was. "As it pleases thee," he says aloud, and the teakettle resonates with the timbre of his voice.

So do all the animal instincts in the body Aziraphale's wearing, including the parts he's been trying to ignore since he grabbed for his robe. "I have some biscuits somewhere," he says, and turns to find them, hoping against all hope that Lucifer will be polite and ignore the fact that the mere sound of his voice--however ringing and powerful--is arousing.

"The only sweetness I need is thy mouth," Lucifer says, and catches him by the shoulders to kiss him again.

The pants and shirt that were a bathrobe a few minutes ago are making a concerted attempt to revert. Aziraphale lets them, and Lucifer laughs again and pulls him into an embrace that's rather wing-intensive and involves rather more skin than he was originally planning on exposing in the bright sunshine of his kitchen.

The doorbell for the flat rings after a few sweet, consuming kisses, and Crowley calls out, "Honey, I'm home," as if he lives there.

He sleeps there more often than not, or at least spends the night, but that's beside the point.

Lucifer cups Aziraphale's cheek with one long-fingered hand. :Shall we greet thy lover bravely?:

"He's not--" Aziraphale adjusts his robe for something like modesty, if not dignity. The teakettle begins to whistle, and Aziraphale raises his voice. "You're just in time for a cuppa," he calls to Crowley, backing away from Lucifer.

Crowley is standing in the kitchen doorway when Aziraphale turns toward it, looking as he might if he found a huge dog standing there, jaws dripping blood, rather than Lucifer, halfway to unclothed all over again. It would've been more than halfway if he didn't insist on so many fiddly buttons, so that was a blessing in disguise. "Hi," he says, the corner of his mouth quirking as he looks from Aziraphale to Lucifer. "What's up?"

"Oh, the usual." Aziraphale turns toward the stove, his cheeks still burning. "Tea, biscuits, visits from your friend the Prince of Lies over there."

:Prince of Stories, please,: Lucifer says, and Aziraphale does not quite drop the teacup. He can't keep up with these modern trends in nomenclature, and that one disconcerts him. :And as to My purpose here, what more could I want than what pleases thee, Crowley: the company of thy fair friend?:

"The thing is--about that." Crowley clears his throat. "I'm sure You were invited, and all, but don't You think it's beneath Your dignity to be bumming around with angels? You might as well be keeping company with mortals at this rate."

Lucifer touches Aziraphale's back again, tracing the line where his wings would be if he let them. He tries to suppress a shiver and does not entirely succeed. :The reflected love of He who ignores us shines no less brightly in this place than it does in any other angel's home, and you have done much to accustom each other to sharing what little light reaches creatures at this remove.:

Aziraphale sets the kettle down firmly and turns to face Lucifer, one hand raised to keep him from trying anything else. "You may stay for tea if You like, and there are some chocolate digestives in the cupboard, but after that, You probably ought to get back to whatever it is You do with your time." He presses his lips together briefly, ignoring the sad smile on Lucifer's face with all of the strength he has. "It was nice," he concedes, "but Crowley's right; You've no use for me really--think what an embarrassment I would be at Your court--and I have responsibilities, and this is all entirely ridiculous."

:L'enfer n'est pas les autres. Hell is--as it has always been--loneliness. Wouldst deny Me a moment's peace?:

Crowley clears his throat. "If I could? In a heartbeat."

Lucifer spreads his wings; the tips of his swan-white pinions brush the walls of the kitchen. His head is bowed, though not enough to hide the sadness of his expression. Aziraphale closes his eyes against the rush of compassion, knowing that it is reflex, that it is just the same impulse that drove him to kiss Lucifer in the first place, and that he is being manipulated. Knowing all of that does not make him feel any less guilty. :Thy heart needs not beat, any more than Mine must, but if you would have Me go, I shall. May I return, some day, Aziraphael?:

The formality of the question surprises him into opening his eyes, and he's about to take a step forward and offer comfort when he catches himself. "The shop's open every Monday, two to five, Tuesdays nine to eleven-fifteen, Wednesdays seven to nine, Thursdays and Fridays by appointment," he recites, finding some small refuge in mundane detail.

Lucifer's smile is bright and fleeting. :Then I shall find you at some point when you will entertain visitors.: He looks at Crowley for a long moment. :And you, My lonely brother--: "Have a care," and he is gone before the echoes of his voice have ceased to shake the walls.

"Well," Crowley says after a long moment, "you don't do anything by halves, do you?"

Aziraphale sniffs and goes to get the cream. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Adultery is bad enough, but with him?"

The word arrests him with one hand on the cream and one on the icebox door. "Adultery?"

"You know what I mean," Crowley says, sounding impatient. When Aziraphale looks at him again, he is suspiciously red-cheeked.

"How should I apologize?"

Crowley shakes his head. "Don't. I won't when it's me."

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and hands Crowley the cream. "Tempting some poor thing to destruction. I ought to be better than you are in this respect."

"It's all right." Crowley takes the cream and then clasps his hand briefly. "You were only doing what you felt you should."

There is enough in that phrase to keep them arguing until the next Armageddon. "That's all it's ever taken to cause trouble," Aziraphale says, and offers him a kiss. After a moment, Crowley accepts.


End file.
